Water
by The Shadowess
Summary: Strange, how water can help you just...let go. Strange, how what you let go will always come back. Cloud contemplates.


"Everything with a beginning also has an end. To put it another way, all things move toward their end… Even from the moment they begin." _-- The Minish Cap

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**Water **

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**Needles of slightly filmy water, shooting out at its own pace – a stream, a short pause, a spurt. Steam rising, billowing about, clogging the senses. Soap in your eyes.

Cloud tilts his head back ever so slightly, the smallest movement in order to allow the meager suds to wash away. He closes his eyes, slumps, fingers his hair as the slickness runs in light, white streams down his shoulders to drip onto the floor. Soap in his mouth; he coughs, allows it to wash out.

The showering room is filled with men, disgusting men, all of his fellow trainees returning from evening practice and spars, from drills and tests and Lord knows what else. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and cheap soap and charcoal and salvaged whiskey. It seems a miserable, loud place, profanities and retorts and guttering complaints called to and fro and back again throughout the large room with its meager stalls and cement floors and three colors of mildew on the wall.

More than likely a cold will go around; with several infected people within a closed, suffocatingly warm room, cramped to the corners with naked, rude, and undoubtedly drunk men, young and old alike. Any SOLDIER would be able to cope, but as it was, no one in the room happened to be one, as if a SOLDIER would need to come to the commute showers anyway.

Most people, like Cloud, preferred to wash before dinner, as they figured that less sweaty, filthy bodies collecting together to eat was better than more. Soon, he would be among those who waited and watched warily for a chance to steal away into the mess hall kitchen when the supervisors weren't looking, coming out with perhaps a prize of a six-pack, or, if they were lucky, an unopened treasure of dark wine imported from Wutai.

Afterwards, he would report to the barracks, where he would relieve himself of whatever he had managed to hide away from the larders in the corner of his bunk, well covered by his patchy sheet and flattened pillow, out of sight from his bunkmates. Sharing was out of the question, of course. And after everyone else was either asleep or unconscious from sniffing whatever packet they had bought in downtown Midgar, he would take out his prize, popping the cap to indulge himself in the sweet, bitter, heavy, burning salvation and relief of underage drinking and the weightless, weightless, weightlessness of the alcohol.

Then he would wake in the morning from his dozy stupor to blinding light and a motherfucking headache, to dress and salute and stand at attention and march and nod and look sharp and to "Sir, yes sir!", all the while hungover and short-tempered, and short all by itself, standing in formation along with dozens others and a few inches short of the rest of the line.

Plying through drills, learning materia usage, running off at the stupidest requests from even the lowest-ranking lieutenants, gun training, sword skills, minor tectonics, "Sir, yes sir," bruises, cleanup duty, studying techniques, endurance training, "Cloud Strife, fifteen, sir! No, sir!", inspections, corrections, all the like. Learning about SOLDIER, ShinRa.

Then there were the scuffles, the critique, the comments, the laughter, the cornering and the flying fists, the shouting and yelling and banging and fractures and blackened eyes and sharp, beady, hateful glares.

Cloud chances to open his eyes; he shakes the water from his bangs and glances around the room. The steam is clouding the cracked mirrors, a cluster in one corner where a stocky man is passing around a chipped and very much so dirty looking sake bottle, being handed down the circle as each person drains his share and winces from the biting taste, dripping from beard stubble and passing it on. Cloud watches, considers joining them. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, stepping into the spray from the rusting water spigot, taking his tiny bar of soap to pass it over his face and torso once again and allowing it to rinse away. The hum and patter of the droplets drown out the guffaws and the cursing behind him.

Strange, how the water can wash away his troubles, so much like beer. He focuses simply on the rush and swirl and warmth of the water, of the cleanliness as he scrubs each arm, crouching slightly to kick away an empty shampoo bottle floating by on its way to the ungrated drain opening. The water pounds onto his shoulders; he flexes them, allows them to relax, the ache dulling.

The water gives a sense of being and of existing commitment-free. It feels as though he can forget the important things, such as training to become chosen for SOLDIER, such as money and duty. The image of the elegant, poised, cold General Sephiroth fades from his mind, as does the figure of friend Tifa, of home, back in Nibelheim. He cannot feel guilty about the people he's hurt, about stealing in his younger days.

It helps him with his stress, whether his dashing sword swing goes too wide, whether or not he is on guard duty tomorrow, when the next time he can get his hands on some narcotics will be, when will he be able to tip back a twelve-ouncer again.

It helps him to believe, to relieve, to motivate, to see and think within a different sense of mind.

It helps him to forgive himself.

Clean. Refreshed. Cloud turns under the spigot, rinsing away any remaining soap. He reaches over, fingers the handle, pulls down the metal knob controlling the water. Attempts to do it quickly, though in vain. A rush of cold water sears over his glistening skin, chilling his bones and sending a shudder through his body. The water slows, drips, stops. Cloud pulls the ends of his hair together, squeezing out excess water. Dark blond. Midway down his neck. Strange how the water can change the color of your hair, how it can cause it to lengthen, so strange.

Cloud splashes over to a rack on the wall, picks up his towel, dries himself, the water sinking eagerly into the folds. He pulls on his wrinkled, slightly wet clothing, moistened from the air. He makes his way to the door, pauses.

He returns to his normal self, worried, depressed, wary.

The door opens, and Cloud strides out, towel over shoulder, thoughts stressed and impudent. Wonders about the wine he might partake of that night.

The door slams shut, rust flakes and drops of precipitation falling to the ground, closing off the entrance to rowdy men and cleanliness and self redemption and water.

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End file.
